


Time Marches On

by transtamakisuoh



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Nonbinary Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 14:16:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10113812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transtamakisuoh/pseuds/transtamakisuoh
Summary: Kyouya doesn't understand. Tamaki understands too well.





	

They are fifteen.

Kyouya has been dragged this way and that all over Japan by his (reluctantly so) new friend.

Every place they’ve gone he’s heard his friend--in French accented but still fluent and unstilted Japanese--casually correct people who call him ‘miss’ on the streets of Kyoto, on the streets of Tokyo, in stores in Akihabara. Their own classmates.

He’s heard his friend casually--gratingly--explain that it’s an easy mistake to make because he’s transgender and still retains much of his feminine grace, beauty, wiles,  _ charm _ .

Kyouya has grown accustomed to it--he thinks, for maybe a day. Tamaki is only outing himself to the point where it seems as though there is nobody that doesn’t know.

Not both of them. Tamaki doesn’t know about Kyouya, and Kyouya tries his hardest to keep it that way. The way he sees it is if Tamaki knows, everyone knows.

It makes Kyouya feel sick, at first, and then he is angry. Very angry.

He corners Tamaki after classes, in an empty hallway out of the main course their classmates take to get to the car park and their limousines. He has corrected a teacher today. A  _ teacher _ .

“What is wrong with you?” he hisses, unable to keep venom out of his tone.

“What do you mean, Kyouya?” Tamaki replies, innocent as the sunshine filtering through the window and blinking owlishly at him.

“How on Earth are you so  _ casual _ about who you are?” Kyouya clarifies, shoving at Tamaki’s shoulder.

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand, my friend,” Tamaki says slowly. Even the gentle  _ mon ami _ from him today sets Kyouya’s blood boiling.

Kyouya pushes out a sharp exhale and nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose so they catch the light in a way he hopes is at the very least vaguely threatening. “Everyone in the school--if not the  _ country _ \--knows you’re trans.  _ Why _ ?” he demands.

He finds it imperative that he knows.

To stamp it out? Maybe. It depends on what Tamaki’s response is.

The other boy looks thoughtful.

“Well…” he says, drawing the word out. He taps a finger to his chin and Kyouya taps his toes impatiently against the polished marble floor. “I know I’m not the only person like me,” he says finally.

Kyouya arches an eyebrow in disbelief.

To Tamaki it must look like an invitation to continue, he assumes, because continue Tamaki does. “There may be someone out there who doesn’t know they aren’t the only one. That someone may be older or younger than our age, Kyouya, but they may feel alone and scared regardless. And if they know that-- _ oh, _ there is someone  _ else _ \--they may feel less alone and scared. I want to make sure nobody is either of those things,” he finishes.

He is an idiot.

An idiot who makes a frustrating amount of sense for someone so thick.

“So?” He looks expectant, bright--almost luminescent in the afternoon sunlight filling the alcove they’re squirreled away in.

“So?” Kyouya parrots, rudely.

“Does that answer your question, my friend?” Tamaki smiles what he thinks is his most charming smile as though that will win him over.

“I suppose,” Kyouya is reluctant to admit.

“What about you--”

“No,” Kyouya cuts him off sharply. “We are not talking about me.” He turns. “We are talking about you. And your apparent hero complex.”

“ _ Hero _ complex!?” Tamaki wails. “Kyouya!” Kyouya shrugs, already heading down the hall, for the car park, for safety with Tachibana and Aijima and Hotta.

\--

He manages to work on his homework for thirty-five minutes before Aijima pushes his door open and bows Tamaki in.

“We never finished our conversation,” Tamaki says, sitting himself across from Kyouya at the coffee table in his bedroom.

“I thought we had.” Kyouya keeps his voice cool. Starts to work through another equation.  _ Evaluate the integral of _ \--

“We finished your side of it,” Tamaki corrects. “Are you on HRT? Where do you get your binders? Do you have a dietician specifically for what testosterone doesn’t cover? I’ve heard it weakens your receptors to Vitamin C, Kyouya.”

Kyouya’s pencil snaps between his fingers. “What are you talking about?” His voice has gone from cool to icy.

“Trans things!” Tamaki chirps. “You are, aren’t you?”

Kyouya is terrified.

If Tamaki knows, it is a matter of time before everyone else does, and Kyouya does not want to think about what that means for all of his hard work for rising above his brothers, how seriously other companies will take him, how his classmates or his family will see him. He can’t be as open as Tamaki. He can’t. It’s not in the limitations of standards Kyouya holds himself to.

He swallows hard. “What will you say if I am?”

“What do you want me to say?” Tamaki is gentle. He must be able to see or feel or hear how scared Kyouya is.

“Have you told anyone else?” It slips out. Kyouya wants to drag it back into his mouth, swallow it down, pretend he didn’t say it.

“No.”

Tamaki’s answer surprises him to his core.

“Why?” He can’t help but be morbidly curious.

“It’s not my place,” Tamaki says. He is serious. “If you haven’t told any of our classmates, why should I? Clearly you don’t want anyone to know.”

“Then why did you try to bring it up at school?” Kyouya snaps, trying to hide the warmth of relief and maybe-- _ maybe, if he’s careful _ \--safety. “Don’t do that again.” Tamaki nods fervently.

“On my honor,” he says, holding a hand up. “I will not tell a soul.”

“How did you know?” Kyouya asks.

Tamaki thinks to himself for a moment. “You have tells that, to another trans person, are  _ trans _ -parent.” He grins, a little smugly, and Kyouya throws a slipper he’d been wearing at Tamaki’s head.

=

They are seventeen.

Haruhi approaches him after a club meeting. “Kyouya-senpai,” they say, “does your binder fit?”

Kyouya goes cold. Ah, history repeats itself. “Yes?” he says. “Do I keep adjusting it?”

“Yeah,” they say. “Um… How many people know?“ they ask, tilting their head up at him.

“Just the club,” he says, forcing cheerfulness into his tone. “And they’re bound under signed and notarized contract not to tell without explicit permission.”

“I wasn’t going to tell anyone…” Haruhi says, a little defensive.

“Good.” Kyouya smiles.


End file.
